Breath
by valonqar
Summary: It is nothing. It is a breath shared, the exchange of air from one body to another. But, she realizes, it is so much more. It is everything. It is life. He has given her his life before he takes her own, and for that, she loves him.


_written for rjsunshine's "No Dialogue Challenge"_

_xxx_

There is a moment, right before the brink of death, that seems to last forever.

She has heard it said that, before you die, your life flashes before your eyes. She doesn't think that to be true. Death is coming soon, she knows that. It's clear in his eyes, so full of pain that it makes her own heart hurt. She knew death was coming as soon as she saw him across the battlefield, wand in hand and tears in his eyes. She _knew_.

She knows.

All it took was one minute. One minute of not paying attention, and before she knew it she had been tossed aside by a giant. It was a cruel death, agonizingly slow. As the blood trickled out from a wound in her head, she watched the battle proceed before her, not surprised to see that they were losing. She had known they would lose as well. She had known it the minute she saw the Dark Lord, standing atop the hill with his army of _thousands_. They had hope, but the Death Eaters had power. They would lose, and she would have to sit and watch it happen.

It is after that thought, as if she had summoned him, that he comes and stands above her.

She sees it there, the pain in his eyes she saw before the war began. He is wounded, a cut in his forehead making his nearly-white hair sticky with blood, and his face is caked in red and dirt. There is a tear in his dress shirt, and she finds the idea that he would wear a dress shirt to a war so absurd that she laughs. No sound comes out, though. It's a dry, clacking sound in the back of her throat that makes her realize dimly that she can't move her tongue. There is no point dwelling on this, though. Death has come for her, personified in the ghastly angelic form standing above her.

He whispers something then, but the battle raging around them drowns out his words and she feels as though she would not have been able to hear them had they been in the silent library. Something shines on his cheek, and she realizes it is a tear. She didn't know he was able to cry. He was always so stoic, void of any emotion other than the occasional bouts of anger. At times she would catch a glimpse of him from across the classroom, and he would look to her like a marble angel on one of the churches she had visited on her trip to France when she was ten.

They had lined the chapels like stone warriors, she thought. Any normal young girl would be blind to their beauty, seeing nothing by unmoving figures lining a tired old building. But she was no ordinary young girl. She saw beyond them, through the death and into their life. Their eyes were blank, unseeing, their faces hard and cold as their flesh. But they were tall, strong, and proud, and she had often imagined them coming alive and picking her up into their marble arms, carrying her away to some far-away land where she would be safe and loved for ever. They had life inside of them, she knew it. Inside those blank white eyes was pain, a pain that ran deep into their marble cores, and from that pain came the fire of life, radiating out from their solid bodies like a burst of sunlight.

And then her parents would call to her, and the illusion would be shattered until there was nothing left in front of her but statues. She would weep, and people would stare, and she would weep more for her angles, forever frozen, forever alone.

Forever trapped.

He reminds her of one of those angels, then. His face is impassive, having aged twenty years in the last hour of battle. There are streaks of blood across his face, some of which was his own, but beneath his skin is a sickly white, the same white the aged stone had been. And there, in his eyes, is the pain she had seen in the eyes of the marble angels who had come to life, the ones who had carried her away.

Then he kneels, face hovering inches above her own, and she knows death had come.

And then his lips are near hers, covering hers, and he lets out a breath, a breath that lastes hours and minutes, days and nights, years and centuries and millenniums and until the end of time.

It is nothing. Not a kiss, not an intimate moment between clandestine lovers as a final goodbye. It is a breath shared, the exchange of air from one body to another. It is a simple biological process that has been split between two organisms, it is normal, it is _nothing._ But, she realizes, it was so much more. It is everything. It is _life_. He has given her his life before he takes her own, and for that, she loves him.

She reaches up to touch his face, phantom fingers lightly brushing against the gash on his head. He winces, but says nothing, staring into her soul with eyes that tell her he knows. That he knows her pain, her fear. He knows why she doesn't want to leave this world - because if she does, who will be left to protect it? Who will be left to fight for those too weak, too afraid to fight for themselves? He knows this, and he says it by saying nothing. He says it by allowing his eyes to flutter shut for one second. One second of vulnerability, one second of weakness, one second of pain.

Then he stands and the moment that has lasted hours and minutes, days and nights, years and centuries and millenniums and until the end of time comes to an end. She knew it would come to an end. She _knows_.

His lips are moving, but if he's actually saying words she doesn't hear them. She doesn't hear anything, she realizes. Her ears have stopped working along with her tongue, and she knows that if he doesn't kill her, her own body will shut down anyways. He must know this too, because he is looking at her with something she identifies as pity. It is so out of place on her stone angle, so _wrong_ that she wants to slap it right off his face, yell at him, _something_, but her arms have been taped and bound to the dirt beneath her and her tongue is still frozen in place. There is no pain anymore, only numbness, and yet somehow she finds the strength to nod. It is her permission, it is her forgiveness, it is her thanks.

She closes her eyes, and breathes.

It is nothing. It is a breath for one person, taken alone, released alone. And yet it is all. It is a breath, her farewell to the world, her cry to the angels, her prayer for whoever stood above to save his soul, because it isn't his fault, none of this is his fault, he's scared, he had no choice, he never had a choice, _none_ of them had a choice.

It is her end.

It is his beginning.


End file.
